Olive them, olive me.
Write about an injustice:
Heart pounding, boiling, a flashing white hot rage of anger spills over, a tidal wave of
unrepentant fury. I gaze upon the golden plains, the rising mountainous crusts
that bubble and simmer from the heat of passionate hands. What have I
done? What curse has befallen me, what sin is so great and so terrible
that it should so belittle me, so humiliate me? A faint whiff, a
fading wisp of a memory flutters in front of me that frays
and fractures as my fingers stretch out, as I try and
make it whole again. Wafting, wading, will
my desire be fulfilled? Will taste rectify?
I long, I yearn as a soul craves the
loving touch of the familiar.
The tender kiss of lovers
embrace. Alas, should
dark clouds that
blossom on
the cracks
of mine
heart.
I
told,
begged,
pleaded with
them. Absolutely,
explicitly, unequivocally: no olives on my pizza.